Lament and Rejoice

The prayers we say out loud tend to be polite. There’s an unspoken preface, “so, God, if it’s not too much trouble.”

But scripture isn’t always so patient. The prophets call out, “how long, O Lord?” “How long shall I cry for help, and you will not listen?” A third of the psalms are prayers of lament, of sorrow, of desperation. Jesus himself called out from the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

It’s ok for us to pray that way too. A prayer of lament doesn’t doubt God’s reality, or God’s power. Sometimes it’s the most honest prayer we can offer.

When I first encountered some of the prayers of our prayer book, I admired their beauty, but they seemed archaic, of a time not our own. The clearest example of that for me was always the Great Litany, which is the oldest part of our prayer book, and which we often pray during the season of Lent.

“From lightning and tempest; from earthquake, fire, and flood; from plague, pestilence, and famine… from all oppression, conspiracy, and rebellion; from violence, battle, and murder; and from dying suddenly and unprepared, Good Lord, deliver us.”

Twenty years ago those words sounded like a historical curiosity. Today, their ring is just a bit more timely.

And then there are the words of the prophet Habakkuk, which we heard this morning. “O Lord, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not listen? Or cry to you ‘Violence!’ and you will not save? … Destruction and violence are before me; strife and contention arise. So the law becomes slack and justice never prevails.”

Those words could have been written yesterday. The prophet’s words don’t belong to some bygone, superstitious age. They sound like a headline. They sound like many of my own prayers.

Here’s the thing about a prayer of lament, though. The very act of prayer holds within it an assumption of faith, a seed of hope. And that’s true of Habakkuk as well. His short book ends with words that never show up in the readings appointed for Sunday mornings, but that are worth hearing.

“Though the fig tree does not blossom and no fruit is on the vines; though the produce of the olive fails and the fields yield no food; though the flock is cut off from the fold and there is no herd in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord; I will exult in the God of my salvation. God, the Lord, is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer and makes me tread upon the heights.”

I will rejoice. Though the fig tree does not blossom and no fruit is on the vines. Still I will rejoice in the Lord. I will exult in the God of my salvation.

That’s not cheap optimism. It’s not a Hallmark card assuring us that everything will be fine. Habakkuk lists every source of survival in his world—food, drink, livelihood—and says, even if all collapses, still he will rejoice. It’s not denial. It’s defiance. It’s faith that refuses to let despair have the last word.

Maybe it’s natural that Habakkuk’s words sound so familiar.

Because we know what it’s like to cry out, “How long?” We know it when we read headlines that only add to our fear. We know it with every new incident of violence in schools and in our streets. We know it every time force is used to serve power instead of justice. “How long, O Lord?” And we know it in our personal lives, when illness lingers, when grief won’t let go. When we lie awake at night, filled with worry about things we can’t control. “How long, O Lord?”

The prophet gives us language for our own moments of lament. And to lament isn’t to despair. It’s to refuse to stop calling on God even in the worst times.

And so, once again, lament walks hand-in-hand with hope. We lament because we hope for something better. We lament because we trust in God’s faithfulness.

Habakkuk calls us to patience. “If it seems to tarry, wait for it; it will surely come, it will not delay.” Even when all seems lost, the prophet declares, “I will rejoice in the Lord, I will exult in the God of my salvation.” It’s not denial. It’s defiance. It’s faith that refuses to let despair have the last word.

And in today’s Gospel reading, Jesus adds his own word to disciples who aren’t sure they can do the things Jesus asks of them. The disciples ask him for more faith. But he tells them they don’t need “more.” If they have even a mustard seed’s worth, it will be enough.

That is the Bible’s witness again and again. Not that everything will be fine. Not that we can escape suffering. But that God is faithful, and that even the smallest seed of faith—one honest prayer, one act of trust, one step toward mercy—will be enough. The world may not change in an instant. But God’s promise will not fail. And God can use even the smallest seed to move mountains.

So the question isn’t, “do we have enough faith?” The question is, “will we live out the faith we already have?”

Most of us don’t feel heroic. Most of us don’t feel like prophets or saints. Most days we feel small, ordinary, worn thin. But Jesus says that even a mustard seed is enough.

Which means: one prayer whispered in the dark is enough. One act of mercy offered to a neighbor is enough. One decision not to give in to fear or despair is enough. Faith isn’t measured in grandeur but in endurance.

And when all those small acts, those tiny prayers, those mustard seeds are gathered together, they become something much larger than we could ever imagine. They become the witness of a people who won’t stop calling on God. They become the testimony that despair will never have the last word.

So let’s not wait for the day when we have it all figured out. Let’s not wait for “more faith.” Let us live fully into the faith we already have. And let us trust God to make it enough.